More Good Ole Days

 

Our time in Midland City didn’t last long, but before we packed up and left, there was one story that’s just too good not to tell.

Out on Highway 231, there was this old curb market—one of those roadside stops with fresh fruits, vegetables, boiled peanuts, and the kind of Southern charm that pulled folks in like flies to molasses. It was always busy, especially in the spring and summer, with travelers heading down to Panama City Beach. And to catch their eye, the market had one peculiar mascot: a big ol’ stuffed kangaroo parked right there at the edge of the road. Now, this kangaroo had seen better days—patched up with duct tape around the snout like some sad, silent rodeo clown. I’ll come back to that in a second.

You’d think that us kids would be thrilled about stopping at a place like that. Fruit, peanuts, and a big weird kangaroo? What’s not to like? But that market had a dark side too—something way more terrifying than a worn-out marsupial. They had a turkey. Not just any turkey either, but a big, mean, battle-hardened turkey that roamed the lot like it owned the joint. No pen, no leash—just free to roam and ruin a kid’s day.

From the first time we stopped there to the last, that turkey had it out for me. I’d step out of the car and that sucker would lock eyes and charge like a feathered freight train. If I didn’t make it to shelter in time, it’d jump on my back and start flogging me, wings beating like war drums, pecking the back of my head like it was digging for gold. After that first encounter, I stayed put in the car, thank you very much. Let Mama deal with the produce—I had no interest in another turkey brawl.

Now about that kangaroo... it was kind of a mystery. No sign, no story, no explanation. Just this out-of-place, duct-taped oddity standing sentinel by the roadside. The first time we saw it, we stared at it like it was some kind of roadside god. My sister Janet, with all the confidence of a four-year-old expert, said, “It’s alive. They’ve got its mouth taped shut so it can’t scream for help.” Honestly, that didn’t seem too far-fetched to us back then. We could come up with some wild stuff.

In 1960, we moved back to Leeds again and lived in a little garage apartment just a block from my grandmother’s shotgun house—the kind that rattled every time a train went by. Her place was right next to the tracks, and you could feel the floor tremble when the locomotives rolled past. There was a huge Great Dane that roamed the neighborhood—nobody knew who it belonged to, but it was gentle enough and so big we used to ride it around the yard like a horse. So, naturally, we called it “Horse.” Not very creative, but it fit.

One odd memory from that time: there was a family that lived around the block, and one of their kids had Down syndrome. Whenever he saw Janet, he’d point and laugh and shout, “Ha-ha! Old girl! Ha-ha!” We never knew his real name, but from then on, we just called him “Ha-Ha.” Even now, when we talk about that time in our lives, Janet and I always say, “Remember Ha-Ha?”

Next door to our little garage apartment was a small grocery store with a soda machine out front. Janet and I would go over there and shake the thing until it coughed up a Coke or two. Sometimes we’d jiggle the coin return and score a dime or maybe even two—jackpot. Back then, a dime bought you a cold bottle of pop, so when two dimes came out, we each got our own. Felt like hitting the lottery.

After a few months in that little apartment, my folks bought a house in a new area called the Rew Development. I had just started first grade, and that move kicked off a whole new chapter of life. Janet and I started exploring more on our own, going off in different directions. That’s a story for another time, but I will tell you about one moment from early on that’s seared into my memory.

The new house had a narrow brick ledge running around the front. Just wide enough for one foot, if you were brave—or stupid—enough. One day, with all the wisdom of a six-year-old, I climbed up there, pressed my back against the wall, and started shuffling along like I was Superman scaling a skyscraper. When I got to the corner, I stood up a little too proud and slammed my head right into a wasp nest. Those angry little suckers came at me like I'd declared war. I flailed, panicked, swatted, and in the process, fell off the ledge.

I didn’t break anything, but I did get a concussion—one of many I racked up during my childhood. That incident marked the true beginning of my life in the Rew Development. It was a wild, wonderful, and sometimes rough place to grow up. I had plenty of adventures there, did a whole lot of dumb stuff, and somehow managed to become a favorite target for the local bullies.